Putzfrau
by nebulin
Summary: Italy can't fight. She's weak. Which is fine, because she can cook and clean and that's all a girl really needs. WWII.
1. Chapter 1

_It may be the last thing you want to hear, and the last thing you want someone to tell you, especially if you're reading things written by me because you'll think I say something charming, or sweet, or just plain dense but kind of endearing, but my life, and the lives of the people are care most about, are all dire. Life, in general, is dire. The good moments whistle by before you can appreciate them and the bad moments crawl on forever. The really bad moments go on for so long that you'd do anything just to see the end of it, even if it made you hurt, and even if it made it worse for a little while. _

_My life has had a fair few really bad moments, and most of the time, I wasn't even paying attention until they were there, staring me in the face, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I do that a lot. If something hurts, I pretend it doesn't. I smile. I don't know why I started smiling. All I know is, if I'm smiling, things can't be so bad yet, so it's not a really bad moment and I don't have to be hurt. _

_This all sounded really good in my head before I tried to write it out. _

_I don't do so well with words. Not like England, and not like Germany. I'm not smart, like they are. That's why I like to paint. "A picture paints a thousand words," England once said to me. It was about the only thing he's ever said that I understood perfectly. It doesn't matter what someone feels, like those moments when you're so happy it feels like there's a light in your chest, and your eyes smile before your mouth can. They doesn't make sense written down, but if it was a painting, you'd understand. Or when you're so scared and empty that you feel like a lost child - in a sentence, it's what Germany called 'an overused comparison'. But whoever painted someone scared and empty and lost would have created something totally new._

_Life isn't really terrible. I shouldn't have said that. I sounded like my brother. You should never take it for granted, no matter how long it's crawled on for, or how often you've felt like a lonely child. It's not happy, at least, it doesn't come that way. You have to work at it yourself. You need to smile. You need to show people something to smile about and something to live for. Otherwise, life hurts you. And hurt people hurt people. _

_There is always hope, and always something, or someone to smile for. And it may seem, the word Germany used was 'hypocritical', for me to say it, but you have to be strong. You always have to be strong, especially when you feel the weakest. _

_Feliciana Vargas, _

_London, England_

_1944_

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><p><em>Yup, one of those annoying letters to no one prologues. Enjoy.<br>_


	2. Chapter 2

Eech, I'll get around to explaining myself later. - _ - Haha.

(c) Himaruya and all that. 

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><p>Berlin, 1942<p>

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><p>Feliciana had been staring at one thing for the past few minutes. While her shoulders slumped and her head occasionally lolled forward, only for her to shake her head defiantly and wake herself up, she decided to focus on something. That thing was the deep cut just to the right of Ludwig's eye, in too awkward a position to be covered. She kept thinking about what his face would look like when that eye opened, blood red running in a smooth, slowly dulling line beside cobalt blue. It would be a little scary, but striking.<p>

Strangely captivating.

She then thought about what Ludwig's face would look like if he had been injured slightly further to the left, but that made her shiver, so she pulled back his cover to check the bandage she'd wrapped carefully around his upper arm, just like Japan had shown her last time, firmly and securely as she could. It was still in place, without any red leaking through, which she took as a good sign, smoothing the ends of the knot gently against his muscular arm, her soft tanned hands trailing on his pale skin as she set it back down carefully. The sun had started to slowly spill into the room, glowing through the dust and black smoke of the air raid in the city the night before. It had been a bad one. Ludwig had been on duty and Gilbert had been panicking when he found his little brother trying to make it home, covered in cuts and scratches from flying shrapnel and debris, not leaving his designated post until his work was done and coming off worse for it. Feliciana was not good in a crisis either, breaking into tears almost as soon as both of the German men had stumbled through the door, Gilbert shouting at her to get bandages and some water. To say that it had been a stressful night would have been an understatement, and, as if to remind everyone of that, Gilbert snored loudly and complained in his sleep from the chair in the corner. He still wore his uniform, crumpled and a little stained, one foot still boot clad and the other slung over the chair's armrest. Feliciana was sure Ludwig would be mad when he woke up.

For all his nitpicky little faults, like wanting his brother's uniform to be perfect after a long night of playing nurse, Feliciana liked Ludwig. He was decent and strong and had integrity, and he was brave and always knew what to say and how to explain things. He was smart, and sincere, and… he looked so young with his hair down over his forehead like that… and he was relaxed and breathing so softly when the room was filled with that dim glow through the curtains, everything so calm and eerie and lulling, all the terror and panic from the night before washed from all three of them, exhausted as they were…

He wouldn't mind if she slept for just a few minutes, too. If she closed her eyes for just a second… alright, he probably would mind that she was using his jacket to cover herself up, but she would wake up before he did. If she was careful not to hurt him as she sat by the end of his bed and propped her head against the wall with a cushion. If he slept for days, like Feliciana felt she could. She set her face against the pillow, her eyelids drooping…

Gilbert slumped and the back of his head bounced off of the armrest, punctuated by a harsh hiss. "Gott verdammt… fucking chair," he complained, sitting up and rubbing the dull, aching spot. Ever the epitome of elegance and gentlemanly manner, he picked up the boot that had fallen to the ground and used the toe of it to prod Feliciana in the back. "Did he wake up?"

She took a second to respond, wondering if it would be better just to pretend she'd fallen asleep. She shook her head.

From behind her, Gilbert got up and stretched - she heard his shoulder click as he sighed out a yawn- and threw back the curtains to let the sun more than ooze into the room. Ludwig's face twitched into a frown and he turned his head away, but didn't wake up. "Give him a minute," assured his brother, going so far as to open a window, showing no concern for the fact the glass had cracked, and would probably break with the right (or rather, wrong) push. "Gotta get him something to drink. Hey, where's breakfast?"

Feliciana didn't want to get up, so she didn't answer. Gilbert tutted and made his way round to face her. Upon looking at him she realised he seemed even paler than before, the shadows under his eyes dull and grey, with his near-white hair and dark uniform, the man looked like he was trapped in a black and white photograph. Apart from his eyes, of course. They were deep, striking red, and Feliciana always found herself wanting to look away from them just as much as she wanted to look into them. "Hey, Putzfrau. You talking to me or what?"

"Signore?" she finally decided to venture, sitting up, the clean jacket sliding to her waist. Gilbert took it off of her and gave her an unusually stern look before he put it neatly over his chair.

"I asked where breakfast was."

"I haven't made it yet," she told him obediently, her accent tripping over her German as she hurried to answer him - he seemed kind of mad. "I can go really quickly, though…"

"You should probably do that, then," growled the albino, leaning over to look at the cut beside his brother's eye, their noses an inch apart.

"Stop annoying her," muttered Ludwig, his eyes closed and looking for all the world like he was still sleeping. "And get out of my face."

Gilbert immediately grinned and sat on the light blue bed sheet, before he pouted. "Was just asking what she'd done about breakfast." He waited for Ludwig's eyes to open properly before he ruffled his hair. "No need to get so protective."

"Your breakfast is in the kitchen, get it yourself," he replied, frowning and swatting his brother away, and going to sit up. Gilbert slapped the pillow a few times while Ludwig got readjusted, and placed it behind him for comfort. Neither said anything about it, and Ludwig rolled his eyes. "She's not your maid."

Gilbert muttered something about there being 'fuck all' in the kitchen before he pulled Ludwig's right arm up for inspection, casting a critical eye over Feliciana's work. "That okay?" She waited with baited breath, and smiled widely when Ludwig nodded. He looked up at her, his expression business-like, and didn't say anything, which made her nervous, so she started talking.

"I just did what Japan did last time, I think it's a good one because I tried really hard, but I was really stressed and I was panicking so…" Feliciana trailed off with Ludwig still looking at her. She didn't like it when he didn't talk. He gave a curt little nod, the edge of his mouth twitching strangely. Maybe that was a smile, she didn't know.

"It's fine, Italien." She smiled back and sat up, pleased to be helpful. He then turned to his brother with an eyebrow slightly raised. "You're a mess." "You're an ungrateful little arschloch," answered Gilbert without a beat, frowning at nothing in particular and tinkering around with the bottles on the bedside table, reading them, pulling a face and putting them back where they didn't belong. "I was serious about eating, by the way."

"Gilbert-"

"No, that's okay!" insisted Feliciana, standing quickly and then taking a minute to recover, blinking slowly. She was so damn tired. "I… I can go and make breakfast and Signore Prussia can get cleaned up." Ludwig nodded another of his stern, but grateful nods. "That would be very helpful. You know where everything is."

The young Italian woman nodded enthusiastically, took the ribbon from around her wrist and tied her hair out of her face (except for the one curl that constantly pinged back into view whenever she brushed it back), giving a weird little curtsey motion before she left. Like a maid, thought Gilbert.

He snorted and collapsed back onto his chair, rolling his head back. "You can tell her to make breakfast but I can't? Bullshit."

"I didn't tell her, she offered." "What happened to 'get it yourself'?" Ludwig tutted. "The difference is that I didn't _expect_ her to have made breakfast. She is not a maid." he growled again. "She is your ally."

Gilbert crossed his arms and smirked, shaking his head. "She calls us 'sir'. I think. What's the problem? She's hardly gonna shoot down a few Tommies for us, just let her make the beds, cook dinner now and then. It's a pretty good deal." "If you have no respect or morals," answered Ludwig haughtily, unrolling the bandage on his arm slowly. Gilbert got up and crossed to him to help him fix it, this time, making it tight and proper. A silence fell, punctuated only by the elder of them slicing scissors through the bandage - Feliciana had left it far too long. They nodded to each other, and heard the quiet knock of pots and pans from downstairs, and the smell of something warm and filling and inviting started to fill the house.

Gilbert scoffed and crossed his arms again. "I don't care what you say, she's a fucking maid."

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><p>Putzfrau - apparently means 'housekeep'. Don't really think there'd be much bother if Italy was a girl, he can cook and clean better than he can fight. He'd get on better. (Sexism? It's the forties. Deal.)<p>

…Gil's an ass. :1 But you gotta love him!


End file.
